


repetition

by starsshine



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Sickfic, Vomit, kaz gets the flu and ocelot is weird about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 18:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13746657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsshine/pseuds/starsshine
Summary: He was never going to get sick ever again.





	repetition

Kazuhira Miller was a fiercely independent person. Relying on others, even emotionally, was not something he was accustomed to and nor did he want to be. The events of the past year had taken a toll on his dignity, and he was getting tired of swallowing it. He would much rather suffer alone than let anyone see him vulnerable and weak ~~besides Snake~~.

Even the idea of using prosthetics made him nauseous. They forced him to, but he would never settle for replacing his arm. He needed these reminders. They were the only things keeping him going. At least, that's what he told himself. Maybe he was just stubborn?

(Maybe it was an excuse to give himself a break.)

Getting sick was detrimental to more than just his body, so he tried his best to stay as clean and germ free as possible. His amputated limbs received vigorous cleaning three times a day, and he always made sure to wipe down surfaces before occupying any space. His own office was a little bit of a mess, but it was never _dirty._ God forbid.

Yet no matter how clean he was, sickness was inevitable when his daily routine was not sleep, drink a lot of caffeine, eat very little, and hang around dirty soldiers.

The start was, not concerning. Light cough on top of a scratchy throat. He just needed to drink more water. Headaches were normal, he got them every day due to his eyes being hypersensitive to light now. He was glad he picked up the habit of wearing sunglasses even before he went blind. He was always sore, and his he was always tired, so that was nothing new. Mongoose mentioned he was looking a little red, but it was late in the year, and the humid air was beginning to get chilly.

When he got the report that several soldiers had contracted the influenza was when he started to get a little worried.

"Kaz… Do you have a fever?"

Venom was always too close. He un-gloved his hand and gently placed it on his sweating forehead. He had put on an extra layer under his coat since he was feeling so cold. He was still fucking cold, _and_ he was sweating. There was too much pressure on his head, and Venom's hand felt like ice. Miller flinched away and scowled behind tinted lenses. The bridge of Venom's nose scrunched up, and he frowned slightly.

"I'm fine," Miller sniffed indignantly, and Venom sighed.

"Get some rest, Kaz." He squeezed his shoulder a little too tightly before lumbering away. Miller wiped his forehead and stalked off in the opposite direction, found the closest Diamond Dog, and barked at her to drive him to the Medical platform.

"Hmmm…" Hummingbird's gaze flickered from the thermometer in her hand to the ever impatient Commander Miller glaring at her with hazy blue eyes. "How long have you felt like this, Commander?"

"This morning," he muttered gruffly. She clicked her tongue, shook her head, and put her hands on her hips.

"And you didn't come here immediately because…?" Miller sniffed.

"Was busy." She placed a pill bottle in his hands, and he brought it inches from his eyes to read it. Phenylpropanolamine, 75mg. "PPA," he grunted.

"Get some rest, Commander Miller."

Was that all he was going to hear today?

He examined the pill bottle closer. Two a day, one every 12 hours. Not to exceed 150mg in a 24 hour period. Who was approving all these fancy labels? Not him, that was for fucking sure. Miller tossed a pill in his mouth, grabbed the mug on his desk filled with cold coffee, and gulped it down. He shed the majority of his clothes, standing awkwardly, unevenly in the middle of his office. He was still sweating, but any more and it felt like his (remaining) limbs were going to freeze and fall off. He groaned.

Miller resigned himself to his bed, dropping his leg to the ground. He had just gotten a cold from not sleeping, it wasn't that big of a deal. If he slept he'd be alright, so he guessed everyone was right to tell him to stop being stubborn and rest.

 

His head was splitting open. Miller woke up to sweat-dampened sheets and the world spinning. He tried to curse, but his mouth was so dry his voice scratched out of him and had him coughing. He rolled over and hacked into the sheets until he couldn't breathe. He lay face down, wheezing into a puddle of his own spit and mucus before pushing himself up with his hand.

Was it the caffeine and the medicine? The lack of food? Miller huffed, trying to slow his breath, and scooted to the edge of his bed. He reached out feebly for his crutch and hauled himself up, hobbling slowly to the bathroom.

The light flickered on and he sucked a breath through gritted teeth. He squinted at his reflection in the dirty mirror; he looked like he'd been hit by a truck, which was better than he felt. Miller turned the faucet and bent over, drinking straight from the tap. He drank until he felt nauseous, and then dragged himself up and glared at the mirror some more. Fair hair stuck to his skin, the neat styling cast aside for absolute disarray. Miller stuck his hands under the faucet, splashed his face and slicked his hair back.

There was a knock, all the way at the office door, and he grunted, cleared his throat, and removed his sweaty tank top. He limped to the door, hit the button with his entire fist. The door slid open, and Ocelot stood there, looking immaculate as usual. Compared to his current state of affairs, he could have almost been considered a sight for sore eyes.

It was pitch black outside. What time even was it?

Ocelot stared down his nose at him and his eye twitched, but he didn't say anything.

"What do you want?" Miller tried, irritated and voice hoarse. Ocelot sniffed.

"You have any idea how long you've been sleeping, Commander?" He tucked silver strands behind his ear, and popped one hip to the side as he stared down at him with the most _condescending_ look on his face. Miller huffed, shrugged his shoulders. "Day and a half. If it were anyone but you, there'd be no cause for alarm but…"

"The boss was worried." Miller snorted, his breath caught in his throat, and he was clutching the door frame as coughs wracked his body.  Ocelot watched him disdainfully. He waited until they subsided before grabbing Miller by the arm and pushing his way into the room. Miller tried to protest, but his throat was too raw. Ocelot dragged him back to the bathroom, shoved him against the sink, and moved to fiddle with the shower. His crutch clattered to the floor.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Miller rasped, trying to at least regain his balance. His head was spinning, and his eyes stung from the light, and his whole body ached so badly he wanted to crawl into a vat of ice.

"Taking care of you," Ocelot said plainly, turning around to look at him. Miller could only stare, incredulously, as he watched the older man unbutton the cuffs of his sleeves and roll them to his elbows. Ocelot raised his eyebrow. "Doctor's orders," he cracked a smile, and Miller's blood boiled.

"Fuck off," he snarled, bracing himself with a hand on the wall and trying to escape through the door. Ocelot easily closed the distance between them and grabbed on to his shoulders. He spun him around, keeping him steady and narrowly avoiding being whacked in the face with Miller's flailing arms. "I said fuck off!" he rasped, gripping Ocelot's scarf in his good hand.

"Calm down," Ocelot chided, as if he were talking to a child. Miller bristled, bit down the coughs rising in his throat. The steam from the shower had sweat rolling down his cheeks, stinging his eyes. Ocelot pried his hand away with one of his own and stepped around him, nudging him gently towards the shower.

"I'm not going to shower with you in here," Miller hissed. Ocelot raised his eyebrow, looked him up and down, and shrugged. His boots clacked as he left and Miller slammed the door shut once he was out of it. Did Hummingbird, or anyone else in the medbay actually send the cretin? Was it Venom? Or was he just coming to torment him all by his little lonesome? Miller scoffed, cleared his throat, and leaned against the sink to fus with his pants. He maneuvered into the shower and huffed, lowering himself to sit.

The water… Helped? It was practically scalding, even sitting, and he wondered if Ocelot had ever touched a cold faucet in his life, but being even closer to the steam was alleviating some of the pressure from his head, and it was certainly helping his sinuses. He should have thought of this before napping for, what did Ocelot say? There was no way it was the next night. He yawned, leisurely washed up, and by the time he was finished the water had gone lukewarm.

The steam stuck to the back of his throat, but it was better than that horrible itching feeling, he guessed. He cautiously got to his foot, balancing with his knee on the edge of the tub. Miller slowly, carefully, felt around for his towel and was surprised when, no where near the wall, it was placed into his hand. He rubbed water out of his eyes quickly and stuck his head out of the shower curtain. Ocelot was seated, one knee folded over the other, on the toilet, looking bored and (comically) frizzy haired.

Miller seethed, but didn't say anything as he toweled off his hair and then wrapped it around his waist.

"You don't have to baby me," he growled. Ocelot raised his eyebrow, and stood up slowly.

"You were taking a while, just making sure you didn't slip," he said matter-of-factly. Miller's lip twitched, and he all but screamed when Ocelot offered his hand. He was standing in the way of anything he could hold on to. Miller grit his teeth, choking on his pride as he forced it down his throat. Ocelot helped him out, and his face burned. He wasn't sure if it was the fever, or shame.

He went with the fever.

"At least let me get dressed by myself," he said through his teeth. Ocelot held his hands up defensively.

"You act like I'm inconveniencing you," Ocelot said, clearly amused.

"You are," Miller sniffled. He looked to a fresh set of clothes folded delicately on the sink. Ocelot crouched, picking his crutch off the ground and propping it up against the wall.

"If you say so." Ocelot waltzed out again. Miller sat and dried off slowly, dressed carefully, and finally emerged. Ocelot was clacking, jingling, around his office, cleaning and straightening things out. Miller ignored him, limped over to his bed to pick his leg off the ground.

"You can fuck off now," he grunted, waving his crutch in Ocelot's general vicinity. Ocelot clicked his tongue, turned to face him from his desk, a mug of (water?) in one hand and his pills in the other. Miller's eye twitched, and he sighed, stomping over and leaning against the desk. Ocelot unscrewed the top and set one pill in his palm, handed him the mug (it was water) when he had thrown it into his mouth.

"Your bed has fresh sheets, get some rest." Ocelot reached for him with a gloved hand, and Miller jerked back, the mug falling from his hand and shattering on to the floor. Ocelot's gaze slowly dropped from his face, red and sweaty, to the ceramic pieces littering the floor. He clicked his tongue and bent over. Miller stared at the ceiling and huffed. He carefully maneuvered away and towards his room.

He didn't want to be around that prick any longer, anyways.

 

When he awoke a second time, he felt _even worse._ He tried to breath through his nose to no avail, and even sniffling caused pain to shoot through his entire head. He carefully sat up, huffing through his mouth, and glared around the room with blurry eyes. It was too dark to see anything, but over the sound of his head throbbing and his uneven breaths, there was definitely, someone, moving.

Ocelot placed something ice cold on his face, and it took him a couple of seconds to realise it was his _hand._

"Christ," he rasped. It felt, good, so he didn't want to move. He also didn't want Ocelot to be touching him, though.

"It's been almost 12 hours," Ocelot drawled, placing his other frozen hand on the back of his neck. Miller shuddered and found himself leaning in to his touch. "It's time for your medicine, Commander." False respect dripped from his voice and it made Miller want to tackle him to the ground and beat him to a pulp.

"Fuck you," he sounded like he smoked five packs a day. He just wanted some water. Ocelot's cold hands slipped from his skin, and he shivered. His sheets were just as damp as they were last time. And his fever still hadn't broke?

The light in the office turned on, and just enough light filtered in that he could see. Ocelot returned, water and pills in hand. He snatched the mug from his hands and drank most of it in one go. Which, really, was a huge mistake. The act of swallowing burned his throat worse than fresh coffee. He coughed harshly, doubled over himself, and Ocelot barely caught the mug before it fell to the floor.

Each cough made his head throb, and he was spitting mucus up on to the blanket over his legs. His lungs seared with pain, and his throat felt like it was going to close. God, he had had the flu when he was a child, hadn't he? Was it this bad all the time? Ocelot's hands rested on his shoulders, holding him steady. His chest heaved with every attempted breath and his stomach was sore just from coughing.

Nausea overtook him in waves. He clamped a hand over his mouth, and without much else to do, Miller turned and vomited onto the floor, and onto Ocelot's boots.

"Easy, easy…" Ocelot muttered, one hand propping him up and the other moving in slow, comforting circles on his back. His head spun. and looking down at the floor wasn't helping. There was nothing in his stomach but acid. He coughed weakly and slumped a little, barely managing to breathe.

Ocelot gave a little sigh, slowly got him to sit up, and rested him back against the wall. He made sure Miller wasn't going to fall over before leaving. Each clack of his boots sounded earth shatteringly loud. Miller stared at the wall, watched it spin, and he leaned back over the side of the bed to vomit again.

He rested his head on the bedside table, not having enough energy to haul himself back up. Boots like thunder returned, and he heard Ocelot click his tongue.

"You're being quite childish," Ocelot mused, and Miller didn't feel like defending himself.

(Why did it have to be Ocelot taking care of him? Why couldn't it be ~~Snake~~ Venom?)

One hand on his chin and the other in his hair, Ocelot pulled him up. Miller winced, and he barely bit down the coughs threatening to rise. Ocelot's thumb, cold and rough, wiped drool and vomit from his chin, traced his spit covered bottom lip. Miller squinted up at him, breathing raggedly. He tried to ask what the hell he was doing, but that took far too much work.

Ocelot pried his mouth open, slid two fingers into his mouth, gently pressing down on his tongue. Miller whined, confused, and his grip on blond locks only tightened. His head throbbed, and he panted around Ocelot's fingers. They traveled further, to the back of his throat, and he gagged around them. Ocelot held him still, looking down at him with very mild interest on his face, and shoved his fingers as far back as they would go.

Miller choked, and vomited bile and stomach acid around Ocelot's fingers.

He withdrew his hand, staring at it contemplatively, and let go of Miller's hair. Miller barely caught himself, choking and coughing, trying to regain any semblance of composure.

"What the fuck," he sobbed dryly. Ocelot wiped his hand on his pants and let Miller breathe for a second. He rubbed his face furiously on his sleeve, hiccuping and trying to clear his throat.

Ocelot rounded the bed, to the side without the vomit, and pulled him to the edge. Miller protested weakly when he felt himself being lifted (he didn't know Ocelot was even that strong), but Ocelot wasn't having any of it. He tried to push on him, and Ocelot on held him tighter. The stench of vomit was strong enough he could smell it through his stuffy nose, and it was all he could taste. It made him more nauseous, but he was sure there was nothing left in him. The older man carried him to the bathroom, set him down, and began unworking the buttons on his shirt.

Miller fussed, and insisted on doing it himself. He really didn't want Ocelot touching him anymore; concentrating too hard made his head hurt so bad he had to close his eyes, and he gave up after two buttons. He hated this, he hating getting sick, and he absolutely hated Ocelot. This was absolutely humiliating. Ocelot reached for his pants, and he tried to shy away. He grabbed Miller's hip in one hand, holding him down and undressing him as the blond loudly groaned about it.

"Go away. I can do it myself," he grunted, trying to sniffle and only being met with a horrible, clogged feeling. Ocelot straightened out and raising an eyebrow, set his lips in a straight line.

"I think not," Ocelot chided, nudging him towards the tub. Miller clambered in, feeling horribly self conscious, and he stared at the wall while Ocelot turned the faucet on. He hugged his knee to his chest, sore all over, and just wanting to die. Once the water had warmed, Ocelot pushed the drain down and leaned back up. "I'll be back. Try not the drown." Miller coughed in acknowledgement.

The door closed and Miller sunk down. He scooped up scalding water and rubbed it against his mouth and chin. Why was he taking a bath? He didn't want to sit in nasty water until he had the energy to get out. With a lot of effort, he managed to pull the shower curtain into the tub and situate it well enough water wouldn't get all over the ground.

He pulled the plug out, and switched to the shower head, shuddering in the brief moment of cold water. How many times was Ocelot going to have to supervise him while he showered? He strained to listen for the door, for Ocelot's boots (his pride wouldn't allow him to live without personally replacing them). The hot water and the steam felt just as good as it had yesterday. Maybe a little too good.

Miller leaned back in the tub, letting the water wash over his sore stomach. He slid down slightly, folded his arm behind his head, and closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the water was cold, the curtain was open, and Ocelot was hovering over him, massaging shampoo into his hair. Miller shot up, splashing water and soap everywhere.

"What the hell are you-"

"Calm down, Miller," Ocelot snapped, holding on to his hair. Miller sucked in a breath, quieted down, and glared forward. Ocelot _bathed him_ in silence, and Miller choked down buckets full of dignity. His hands were dexterous, firm but not painfully so. He grabbed for Miller's body wash and Miller hissed.

"I can do _that_ myself," he grunted. Ocelot seemed almost _disappointed,_ but poured soap into Miller's waiting hand. He really, _really,_ didn't like feeling those ice blue eyes watching him, but he had already passed out in the shower once, he supposed. All his joints ached, and his chest and stomach were sore beyond belief. He zoned out, washing his arm obsessively, and the snap of the cap on the body wash brought him back to reality.

"What are you-"

Ocelot leaned into the tub, getting drenched immediately, as he reached for Miller's leg. Miller jerked and grabbed a fist full of silver hair, pulling him to his face.

"Don't." Ocelot stared at him, enthralled in something in his expression. He gripped Miller's wrist in one hand, grabbed his chin in the other, and kissed him.

Miller's mind went, blank, and it seemed Ocelot immediately regretted his decision to kiss a man who had vomited three times in the last hour. A complex look crossed the older man's face, and he wiped his mouth before grabbing more body wash and going for his leg again. He flinched as the older man started to wash it, but couldn't offer much else for resistance.

What the hell was that? What the _hell was that._ Ocelot tenderly washed his leg, washed the other one, looking like a cat caught in the rain.

Miller stared forward bleakly, gritting his teeth, and _hating_ his life.

He was never going to get sick ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted kaz to vomit. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> I-I'm not good at ocelhira, or ocelot, my bad.


End file.
